Who Wants to Live Forever?
by Thessaly
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like  Galileo and Scara in the bus.  Funny, sweet, and rather angstridden. Moderate swearing, mild sexual references, and suicide discussion.  And yet, I hope, entertaining.  So, are we gonna rock, or what?


This is exactly what it sounds like – Galileo and Scara in the bus. Funny, sweet, and rather angst-ridden. Sorry, the angst crept in and then I couldn't get rid of it. I mean, when you think about it, it's vaguely logical...I hope! I have, shall we say, embellished the dialogue, because a) I wanted to and b) I couldn't remember all of it, or what order it went in. Sadly, I own neither character or situation – that's Ben Elton, aided and abetted by three quarters of Queen. All I own is the conjecture and the inside of Scara's head, which probably isn't so much to brag about. If you don't know the songs I'm quoting, I'm not really sure what you're getting out of this because if you _are_ reading it, you've probably seen WWRY, and are crazy enough to know all the songs anyway. However, they are...Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Save Me (not in the show, but still Queen), Who Wants to Live Forever, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Phantom of the Opera (yeah, I know...but it fit really well).

It was cool and quiet. Gazz had lost his jacket somewhere, and I was wondering vaguely if I could find it and steal it. Damn short skirt. "It's weird – being all alone, you know?" said Gazz. I focused again. Stop shivering, Scara.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean...I liked them. For the first time in my life, I don't hate myself." I made it as affirmative as I could. Yeah, so the skirt was a bit too short, and I didn't have the bust for the corset, but while I was at the Heartbreak, I had felt pretty. I'd had _fun_. And I was madly in love with my boots.

"And I don't want to die anymore," said Gazz. He shrugged. "I've found something to live for."

I rolled my eyes. Oh, God, another bout of philosophy about saving the world. "The Dream?" It would be, too. Idiot.

Gazz looked around at me and his hair promptly flopped into his eyes. "No," he said as though he knew exactly what I was thinking and was contradicting it. Which he was. "You."

Holy shit. He did _not_ just say that. Full-blown, terrifying romance. I – "Um..." Oh, _that_ was eloquent. Well_ done_, Scaramouche. Way to go.

His eyes glittered a bit in the starlight. "I – I think I - " Lost his stammer? Apparently not...I had spoken too soon. "I love you, Scaramouche."

No way. I wasn't hearing this. This so wasn't real. All right, so it was kind of obvious he _liked_ me, but loved? Like forever, like in the Bohemians' music? _Crazy little thing called love, I just can't handle it..._ _I'll love you till I die_. I gathered my thoughts. Go on, Scara, say it...you know you want to. No, stop looking at his hair, you twit. Or those really, really sexy arms...anyway. "I love you too, Gazz." There, that wasn't so hard, was it?

He made a face. "Do you think, maybe once, you could use my real name?"

It was too good to resist. "All right. I love you, Gazz...a Fizz...er." It was his turn to roll his eyes.

The pause was a bit awkward. I noticed, with a funny drop in my stomach, that he was holding my hand. And I hadn't noticed. Whoops. "Well, we'll probably be killed anyway," I said. I sounded a bit cheerful. Probably not the right tone.

"Right," said Gazz in the same voice.

I could feel something rising in the back of my brain; words and music. Something Gazz had said the other day, to Brit. "_There's no place for us, there's no chance for us. What is this thing which lifts us up, then slips away from us? Who wants to live forever?_"

Gazz, staring at me, joined, "_Who wants to life forever?_"

I was still feeling awkward, so as he was doing his singing I got up and edged off the back seat toward the bonnet. The stars and the knowledge that I was probably going to be in a laser cage in about forty-eight hours had the overall effect of making everything a lot more important, a lot more dramatic. "_Who wants to live forever?_" Who indeed? I didn't. I bet Gazz didn't. But, dammit, I was going to have a bloody good time while I did live. He followed me. Um, not quite what I intended. Our palms touched, and then the fingers intertwined. He was pulling me backwards, back to the bus. Where we could sit down. He had a gorgeous voice. I had noticed that at the Heartbreak, but it intruded itself on me again. Sort of soft and husky, right now. Really nice.

Somehow we were sitting, and then Gazz wasn't singing anymore, and I wasn't talking. And he leaned forward and kissed me, very carefully. And then it got a bit more interesting, and we both tipped backwards. A few minutes later, Gazz rolled sideways and ran one hand along my jawbone. "Ok," he said. "What happens now?"

"What?" This seriously wasn't happening. "Well, you see Gazz, little boys are different than little girls..." Outright sarcasm seemed the way to go.

"I know _that_, Scara." Did he just blush? God, I love this boy. "I meant more in like the practical line of things." There was another awkward pause. "Come on, you know all about this stuff."

What? I did? "Look, Gazz, my previous experiences – and no, I'm _not_ telling you about them – weren't particularly special. So I know, sort of, what I'm doing, but I'm not really your expert on foreplay."

"Ok..."

I reached up. "Kiss me again. I'm sure we can work something out."

Later, after working something out very satisfactorily, we both lay quiet, thinking. Gazz, on his back with his hands behind his head, had abandoned his tanktop as well, but I had the blanket so at least I was less cold. I was actually curled up on my side, playing with the weave of the blanket and pondering pointless things, like how someone as apparently innocent, high-minded and wimpy as Gazz ended up with such good muscles, or was such a fantastic kisser. I should ask him, I thought.

"Hey, Scara," said Gazz at random. "I was just thinking, we were in school three days ago. If this hadn't happened, I'd be – I mean, things would be different."

"Yeah, I guess. I'd probably be at home surfing and avoiding my mum. I'd still be that freak girl. And, what were you going to say?"

"Nothing." For some reason, I can always tell when Gazz is lying. Maybe because he's not very good at it. But there was a definite edge of evasion in that.

"Gazz, it's not like its a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal, then why do you want to know?" He sounded uncharacteristically edgy.

"I was just wondering. I don't know that much about you, 'sall. I'm serious – if Khashoggi hadn't arrested you, where would you be?"

"Dunno." Definitely antagonistic.

"Come on, it's not like it's a hard question."

"Yeah, well I don't want to answer it." Gazz sat up and looked down at me. "Why are you pushing this?"

"Because you're being completely - " I stopped. He had stretched his arms out for a moment, and I had caught sight of his wrists. "Unreasonable. Gazz..." I grabbed both of his arms before he could hide them again and looked at them. "Holy shit." What had he said earlier? _I don't want to die anymore_. I thought that was a joke.

"Scara, please..." He had muscular arms – I'd been admiring them – and the veins stood out blue and close to the surface. And all over his wrists and forearms were the tell-tale signs of razor marks. The thin white lines of old, healed scars, still visible; and the faint puffiness of newer ones. There was no pattern, but the mind immediately looked for one. It was like a puzzle that would never quite be solved. My God...It hurts being told that you're a freak every day for four years of your life. And it had probably started earlier for him. I had channeled all the anger and frustration into learning things, and pretty much into hacking computers. But Gazz's brain was completely different from mine, and it looked like he had just let all that anger and misery overflow. And then had taken it out on himself.

I looked up at him, and he looked back, nervous and defensive. I could feel pressure building behind my eyes, hot and itchy. "You weren't going to..." I couldn't finish that sentence.

He pulled his hands away, and turned sideways, hugging his knees. "Yeah, I was actually." His voice was hard and dislocated. "I took sleeping pills when I was fifteen, but I woke up and got sick. The next year I tried cleaning detergent...I hit my head when I passed out, and my parents found me and took me to the hospital. I told them I fell over, or something...I stopped eating when I was seventeen, but they took me back to the hospital. I don't know why they didn't notice a pattern. I guess they aren't used to kids trying to off themselves... I stole the razor from class earlier this year and started playing with it, you know...how deep do you have to cut before the feeling goes away? How much can I stand before I feel sick? You ever tried it, Scara? It's disgusting, but it feels...I dunno. I just kept doing it. And I'd start thinking, well, if I put it there and push, I'd sever an artery, and then everything would be down the sink or the bathtub or whatever before anyone had time to rush me to the hospital. And then I wouldn't have to worry about being different, or wrong, or anything like that..." He buried his face in his knees. I heard him mumble, "_Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here_." There was a pause. "Oh, for fuck's sake," said Gazz, pulling away in a burst of nervous energy. "It doesn't stop. It never stops. There's always something. _He'll always be there, singing songs in my head_...see, that's what I mean. I don't even know who "he" is."

The tears were sliding down over my face properly now. I don't even know why. I'm not really your number one sappy heroine or anything, but God...I thought I'd been through teenage Gaga hell, but it appeared I'd only hit the outer reaches. I sniffed furiously and looked at the contoured back in front of me, shaking slightly, and I reached out and rested my hand on the shoulder. Well, he had me anyway. Whatever good that might do. "Gazz," I said quietly. "Come on, Gazz. I'm here, all right?" I felt like a complete prat, but Gazz lay down, slowly, and I put my arms around his waist and curled up to fit the curve of his body. We both lay still for a few minutes. His fingers closed convulsively over mine, and he squirmed to turn over.

"Scara?" he said, gently. "Scara, don't _cry_." He put out a hand to touch my cheek, very gently. "If you lose it, we're both screwed. I don't know anything about electronics." I giggled, wetly. "That's better." There was a pause, and I looked up. Gazz's face was approximately five inches from mine. His eyes, very dark and sparkling with what little light there was, were watching me mildly. "I wasn't kidding; you know that right? I – I'm really serious. I need you." He touched my shoulder. "You're shivering." I was, too. He leaned forward and hugged me tightly. "Commere, Scara." Being that close to him made things a lot warmer, I had to admit. And the security of being held; that means a lot too. The simple knowledge that someone wants you. Likes you. Hell, _loves_ you.

We'd both spent a whole lot of nights in our beds at home, with nothing but the unappealing idea of school to keep us going and the soul-deep suspicion that there was no one in the world who would completely understand us. Having someone beside me, warm and close, was a change. I realized, lying awake in the back of a ruined bus, that I had probably found the one human being who would understand me, and why I did what I did. Just as there was a part of me that recognized the absolute Gaga hell Gazz had been through, there was a part of him that recognized what I'd been thinking and feeling too. It was obvious how much he needed me. I wondered if it was obvious how much I needed him. We were each other's opposites, it seemed like. My mind, nearly asleep, wandered. God. If Khashoggi hadn't been quite so organized, the Dreamer would have ceased to be a problem of his own accord and all Khashoggi's diffiultiess would have been solved. Ironic, that.

I was woken up a few hours later by the pop and static of the two micro-tranceivers. The Bohemians were at police headquarters, being questioned by that pervert. The deep chill of the night was past, and the sky was thinking about going pink. Reality reasserted itself. I untangled myself from Gazz and couldn't help smiling at him, just a little bit. Romance was fine, and really good sex was even better...Galileo Figaro, bullshit. Shagileo Gigolo, more like. That being said, it has its place, and it was now time to start being a bit more practical about things. It really was just me and Gazz. Which translated as, at best, one and half thinking beings. Fine. We could do this. This was so going to work, if I had to do it all myself. Gazz, living up to his name as the Dreamer, soon to be modified to the bloody-annoying-to-share-a-bed-with active sleeper, stirred and muttered. The Seven Seas of Rhye? Now, if I could just remember where they were... 


End file.
